Jon Wilson - The Obsidian Man

by Jon Wilson

  She remained silent. He had not voiced a question, and she had none of her own.

  His full lips smiled at her, dimples punctuating each rosy cheek. “Is there perhaps something afoot? Something I should be aware of?”

  “Other than the massacre at Darnouth?”

  “And yet, Lieutenant Waas tells me you inquired about a Danann traveling with two children.” When she appeared prepared to meet this with nothing but more silence, he asked, “Did you?”

  “No.”

  He looked momentarily stunned, and then performed a grotesque parody of a bow from the waist. “The lieutenant must be mistaken. My apologies.” He took a step back. “I will speak with him again.”

  She mourned the demise of his honesty, but it was her own fault for being reticent. “I asked if a Danann had passed through with two wards.”

  Reasserting his full height, he told her, “Yes, of course. Not quite the same thing. Would they head for G’nash?”

  She shrugged. Sleep had not particularly appealed to her before, but it would be less numbing than trading quips with thefeldysh. “They might.”

  “I wish they had come here, then. My scouts have informed me G’nash is gone. Two regiments had been dispatched to there day before yesterday. I now have a fort full of soldiers itching to fight and no enemy.”

  “I am sorry.”

  The plush eyebrows rose, nearly touching his low hairline. “Indeed?”

  She was too frustrated and weary to pay attention to her own sarcasm, much less his. “Do you have more questions? I am tired and wish to set out at sunrise.”

  “No more questions. Just information.” He showed his palms. “It is my duty to protect the people of this territory. I have heard rumors—nothing more, you must understand, and hardly worth mentioning were it not for the unusual concentration of Danann in the area. It is said the failure of the rangers at Darnouth has raised questions among the common folk regarding the value of continued tithing. Of course, I am a pragmatic man. And, like the crown, I know that the fine tradition of service rendered by the Danann far outweighs a single unfortunate episode. Indeed, that a ranger alone could save even the handful of lives spared at Darnouth, it is in itself an heroic achievement. And, I hear, the ranger was tragically killed. I knew him, did you know? He spent many seasons in this area; I dealt with him often.” He stroked his chin, making a show of searching his memory. “What was his name?”

  Ardee could not answer; it was all she could do to keep her arms at her sides, her hands not clenched into fists. Blood pounded in her ears. It was as if she wore her NaratTohnin across her breast and her heart was determined to pound the vow to powder.

  The colonel gave her only a moment to respond before brushing the question aside with a stroke of his hand. “No matter. The death of a ranger is always cause for sorrow. My point is this: the rumors are unfortunate, but not unexpected. However, we can not ignore them, nor the fact that unnatural—or rather inexplicable activity among the rangers will only ignite further speculation.” He pinned her suddenly with his eyes. “You realize, we are all but at war with Belfayne. And, to many, the Danann’s reluctance to declare their support for Macadre is tantamount to aligning themselves with her enemies. If we are to preserve the good name of your kind and maintain the confidence of the commoners, we must work in tandem. Ultimately, no matter what is said, our goals are the same.”

  Ultimately? Ardee thought not. Her ultimate goal was to die in a bed at the VaSaad, perhaps a few pretty journeyman rangers attending her. No more or less. And her immediate goal involved only herself and the stonediver. The breeders had no part in it and were entitled to no information regarding it. She gave the colonel her least respectful sigh. “May I sleep now?”

  She saw his jaw go to work grinding his molars. “Please. Pardon my overzealous enquiries. For both our sakes, I am willing to forget this interview occurred.”

  Breeder threats. “As you like.”

  He gave her only a slight bow of his head and pivoted on a heel. The escort did likewise. They all marched away down the corridor.

  Ardee closed the door. She wanted to slam it, but prided herself on being above such pettiness, at least in the presence of the feldysh. The nerve of the man! Even the armed guard was an insult—as if she could not have easily dispatched the trio had she felt the slightest inclination. And what were his motives? She had never met him before, but clearly he was not an utter imbecile. He could not have expected to extract any information from her. Had he come simply to deliver his pretty little speech? Did he wish to present himself as sympathetic to the Danann position? If so, he had failed completely—as the breeders usually failed in their deceitful attempts at wooing favor among her people.

  Holy Stars, I sound like an antiassimilationist fanatic! I could be Keone himself.

  She crossed back to the corner, lowering her rump to the floor. She was truly exhausted. Her arms balanced across her knees and she settled her head upon them as if they were a hammock. In a few moments, she felt herself drifting off. The soft cold closed in upon her flesh and she seemed to coil tighter around her own warm center.

  She had denied herself deep sleep for too long. It greeted her like an old friend, too anxious to claim her once more as its own.

  Chapter 7 Her second night in the wilderness, Sihr was ready to scream. The air was ice, the ground frozen; the minuscule fires Keone maintained did little to dispel the cold. Worst, neither of her companions appeared to suffer as she did.Well, I am not a ranger nor do I ever hope to be. If my body prefers the comfort of a warm bed, I will not be shamed by it. I am civilized and this trek is ridiculous and…

  No, she did not want to go down that road again. She had to trust in Keone’s good sense, even if it appeared to have taken a holiday. He was her paradigm—her mentor— and wiser than she. Many times she had glimpsed the fiery core of knowledge burning within him. Weighing her disquiet against her faith in those memories, she could not quite give up all hope.

  More disturbing was Holt’s morbid acquiescence. Having delved his dank psyche, she had to wonder if the boy was suicidal. He spoke casually, did not appear unduly anxious, but shouldn’t he? Shouldn’t he experience at least as much anxiety as she? He had encountered the Moadaeshe demon before. It had scarred him somewhere deep and secret, leaving a twisted, black incarnation roaming his frozen maze. And yet he seemed balanced enough—determination his only evident overriding emotion.

  They were both out hunting—or whatever they did to provide food. She was tending the fire, as near to it as she could possibly get without squatting on it like a nesting hen. She occasionally fed it small twigs, refraining from throwing in the larger pieces, as it would only incur more of Keone’s wrath. What did he fear would be attracted? They had seen no troll nor imp, nor any creature that was not turning on a spit in the two days since leaving ThistleTown.

  A h , ThistleTown! Ugly, molding, ratinfested breeder village. What she would not give to be back there—even in a shed, surrounded by drunken soldiers, with legions of small black spiders spinning webs around her head.

  She knew part of the reason they had encountered nothing thus far was Keone’s magic. Unable to grasp precisely what he did, she knew he concealed them. When he said he was going ahead to scout he was actually circling behind to erase their trail. Why didn’t he let her help?Why doesn’t he teach me? He is my paradigm and I may some day need these skills to survive. What if something should happen to him on this journey? What if the demon…

  No, again. Yet another trail she refused to explore. Perhaps he was simply making himself indispensable by not sharing his tricks with her. Maybe he would ensure his own survival by seeing to it that she and Holt depended upon him to get them back.

  It was all too much. Faer would be so disappointed in her for not taking better care of him.

  She heard no footsteps, they were both simply suddenly there with her. Perhaps that was a good thing, she decided. Hearing something approach through t
he dark forest would only send her imagination into a whirlwind of horrific surmises.

  “Rabbit again,” she said. “What a surprise.”

  Keone settled on one of the three logs he always provided for that purpose. “Holt caught a terrific ice-hopper bullfrog. We decided against it.” He smiled up at the boy who had yet to sit.

  Sihr looked up too. And what was this? Was some strange bond starting to form between her teacher and the boy?Why not? He is my brother now, for all purposes. Perhaps I had enjoyed being an only child more than I knew.She groaned aloud. Was she jealous? That would truly be her at her most pathetic. But no, it wasn’t jealousy; it was embarrassment, or something closely akin to that. She could not help but feel for Keone. Not only did Holt not return her paradigm’s smile, he regarded him with an expression as cold as the frozen ground. Her mentor, herfather,was straining to reach out to the unreceptive child, only to have his warmth deflected—reflected like sunlight off an ice-covered lake.

  “I can do that,” she said. Keone had brandished his knife and was preparing to skin the rabbit. He surrendered it to her, leaning forward to adjust the fire. He did it with his bare fingers of course, stirring the glowing embers and arranging the burning pieces of wood.

  Holt was watching skeptically. “How do you do that?” he asked, sounding not a bit impressed.

  “I don’t know,” Keone told him. “It’s something I learned in the obsidian.”

  “You must know.” The boy looked up. His expression plainly conveyed his conviction that Keone was purposely withholding information from him. “If you do it, you must know how you do it.”

  Keone frowned, withdrawing his hand and wiping the ashes from his fingertips onto a trouser leg. “There you go again, ranger’s ward. How do you grow your hair? How do you make the blood circulate through your body? You do many things without knowing how you do them.”

  Holt matched Keone’s frown, deigning to sit upon a log. He crossed his arms over his chest, clutching his elbows, but did not get a blanket from his sack. Sihr, wrapped in both of her own already, decided the child was very pigheaded.

  “What other magic can you do?”

  Keone began constructing a spit. “So, you’ve decided it’s magic then?”

  “If I stuck my hand in the fire I would be burned.”

  “Me, too,” Sihr said. “Although that may not be enough to stop me if it gets any colder.”

  “It isn’t natural.”

  Keone said, “Neither is your ability to move so silently and swiftly through the woods. What other boy of Darnouth shared this skill?”

  “It’s a natural ability, though. I learned it.” He looked suddenly at Sihr and then back to Keone. “From Kawika.”

  Planting supports for the spit, Keone did not glance up. “And I learned of the fire from the stone. My skill required many more hours of study than yours, I assure you.”

  Holt fell silent. Sihr, finishing the rabbit, returned it to her paradigm. He skewered it and balanced the ends of the spit on the supports. He sat back, his hands on his knees, smiling at the fire and the contraption over it. Finally he said, “I can also do this,” and the fire flared up suddenly to engulf the rabbit.

  Both Sihr and Holt rocked back on their perches, startled. Then, when the fire shrank once more, she hissed, “You let me freeze for fear someone will see our fire and then do tricks like that!”

  Keone stifled his mirth. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Now that was magic.” Sihr was surprised to hear the faintest trace of admiration in the boy’s tone.

  “I guess. Mostly though, it was my belly overriding my better judgement.”

  Holt turned to Sihr. “Can you do that?” When she shook her head, he turned back to Keone. “Will you teach her?”

  “No.” The curt reply seemed to strike the boy as soundly as a slap across the face. But Keone was not quite finished. “I can only attempt to guide her to the knowledge on her own.” He looked quizzically at Holt. “Wika didn’t sit you down one day and say you will move through the forest by doing this and this and that. He led you to your own discovery of the ability.” He arched a brow. “Am I right?”

  The boy scowled—a reaction Sihr found completely unfathomable even from him. She remembered suddenly the skins she was trying to keep warm in her lap. “Water?” she asked. Both of her companions extended hands simultaneously. She surrendered the skins and then pulled her blankets tighter. “Holt could dive I think.”

  Keone finished filling his mouth with water and then lowered his head. He was wearing another sly grin. “No. Holt, I think, will be a legendary ranger.”

  Sihr sighed. There he went again. Surprising—she might have expected him to be more subtle with his flattery. Holt, too, looked unconvinced.

  “What does it mean?” he asked. “Stonediving?”

  Keone turned to Sihr, passing her back the skin. He tossed his head toward the boy, signaling that she should answer the question.

  She drank first, as much to gather her thoughts as to satisfy any desire for refreshment. As she replaced the stopper, she cast her gaze down on the fire. She felt her eyes lose their focus, realizing she must look transfixed. “In all living things,” she began slowly, “there is an essence.”

  Oh, there’s a fine start, Ishe decided. sound like a fanatic.She could feel both pairs of eyes watching her, and was glad she had lost herself in the flames. “In people and animals it is easy to discover. In people especially. Many humans, including breeders, are born with the ability to find and explore these essences. The king’s seers and the oracles of Habaaj have this gift, though the oracles have many others as well. Fortunetellers often possess it, at least to some degree. Of course, thousands of feldysh probably possess it, yet have no idea.”

  “You digress,” Keone told her.

  She looked away from the fire and gave him a sour frown. “Thank you.” She turned her head, addressing Holt. “Anyway, other essences are harder to find—the lower animals for instance, and even plants. Plants have the widest variety of essences, from the ponderous but torpid trees to the wily, spirited grasses.”

  “And now you wax poetic.”

  “You might have spared us the trouble and explained this yourself.”

  “No. You need the practice. Try not to enjoy the sound of your own voice too much.” He waved a hand, blithely. “It is like the wily and spirited grass—it requires occasional trimming.”

  She reached out and slapped his knee. “Finally, Holt, there are the mineral essences. It is what’s called the breeders’ folly that rocks and even dirt are not considered living things. The Danann stonedivers long ago discovered these essences and have sought to explore them. Many questions, it is believed, will be answered this way. And much power revealed. The minerals, after all, form the core of our world. Those who seek out the answers in the living stone are called stonedivers.”

  Her voice echoed briefly before the silence closed over them, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the spitting of the roasting rabbit. She slowly brought her eyes back to her paradigm, who met them with a smile. Finally, Holt said, “And that’s what you’ll do?”

  “Someday I hope to accomplish it. I’ve never succeeded in finding my way into anything simpler than a rose, and that was at seven and almost purely by instinct. It is a slow road.”

  Keone said, “It’s an unfortunate fact of life that the older we get, the harder we find it is to learn new things. And there are very few babies at VaSaad-Ka.”

  Chapter 8 Ardee was flying again. It had taken many hours, but she had found traces of the girl’s urine on the snow and a thread from her cloak on a twig. Given a hub, she had been able to search in a widening circle until she discovered the scratch of a boot on a stone. Almost directly east of the urine. Days old. They could be near G’nash.

  Furiously she drove after them. Another night fell. She gave him enough credit that she would not track them after dark. Her sleep was fitful, aggravated by
violent and torturous dreams: consecutive visions of triumph and disaster. She would find herself catching them one moment and discovering their heads on stakes the next. For the first time in years, she awoke shivering.

  Another day. Her belly churned and gurgled, demanding food. She ate only in the evening, unwilling to hunt until it was too dark to chance following their trail. The tracks were too faint, impossibly faint. He was using some sort of magic against her. Even miles ahead, he seemed able to disrupt her reasoning.

  Sleep proved even less restful the second night. She camped near the emptied caves of G’nash—troll-sign everywhere. In a great mass, the Huerunan had headed further north. The multiple signals made sorting out Keone, Holt and Sihr impossible. It would take her most of the morning to pick up their trail again. But they would be moving slower, climbing MountGir. Finally, something would work in her favor.

  Toward late afternoon the next day, she noted their tracks were becoming more blatant. Either he thought he had lost her for good, or had not yet had a chance to double back and clear away the traces of their passing. It was nearly dark when she first caught sight of them, far off through the trees, marching single file, Keone, Holt and then Sihr.

  Heart pounding, she circled nearly a mile around them, moving with a speed seldom attained in the past. Perhaps this maternal instinct (as Lorre so sardonically referred to it) was not all bad. Placing herself as near the center of their path as she could gauge, she waited with her back to a tree.

  All of their footsteps could be heard. They were growing tired. The sound itself would have told her it was time to make camp had she been leading them. The children— Sihr at least—could not spend an entire day scaling a mountain. She held her breath, heard them march within ten feet, five, three.